round, forgetting the pain in his body, and headed purposefully back into the hotel, building himself up for the coming encounter with Davison.
Halfway across the foyer, his mobile chirped its idiotic, irritating ring in his pocket. He kept striding and answered it. ‘Jagger.’
‘ Connor.’ It was the DCI from Greater Manchester.
Henry halted mid-stride. ‘Go on.’
‘ Just to say I went looking for the sealed master tapes. Neither one is in the tape library — or at least if they are, they’re not where they’re supposed to be. Can’t find them, in other words.’
‘ You’re saying he’s got the masters, as well as the working copies?’
‘ I’m saying the masters are not where they should be. You make your own assumptions.’
Henry thumbed the call-end button. A feeling of savage anger gushed through him. Two minutes later he was outside his hotel room door, rapping with his knuckles. ‘Come on, open up, it’s me.’
‘ You’ve taken your time,’ Davison bitched on opening the door.
Henry burst in, taking the man completely by surprise. In a flash he overpowered Davison and spread him across the double bed, one forearm crushing his windpipe, his free hand bunched into a fist which hovered only inches away from Davison’s face.
‘ Not only have you nearly just blown my cover sky high, but you nearly got me killed last night, you prick! You lied to me by saying you hadn’t mentioned my statement to Thompson and Elphick, didn’t you?’
‘ No, Henry,’ his victim spluttered with difficulty. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re on about, but if you don’t let go of me now you can wave goodbye to your job and your pension.’
‘ Bollocks!’ Henry rasped, spittle coming out with the word. He applied more pressure to Davison’s windpipe and re-bunched his fist for effect. Davison’s eyes squinted in anticipation of the punch. He struggled, attempting to break free, but Henry’s heavier bulk kept him pinned there. Henry moved his face even closer to Davison’s. They were nose to nose. Davison picked up every nuance of Henry’s sheer anger.
‘ I know what you’re about, you bastard,’ Henry uttered through clenched teeth. ‘You’re trying to save your career at the expense of every other fucker around you. You’re a dangerous bastard and someone should have put you out of this job years ago; but I’ll tell you something…’ Henry’s voice lowered into a growl… ‘you’re mixing it with someone who’ll take you on, because when I’ve finished with Gunk and Gary, I’m coming for you and I’m going to take you down — and out. Got that? You are dead meat as far as the police service goes.’
Henry eased off with a glare of disdain, leaving the higher ranking officer sprawled across the bed, massaging his throat, looking angrily at Henry’s back as he left the room.
Chapter Twelve
Take-off was never a problem for Danny; it was the slow glide back towards ground as the plane lined up for the runway which gave her the, sharp pain in the middle of her head. She swallowed in an attempt to put some balance back and squirmed uncomfortably in the narrow seat. She adjusted her long legs once more, trying to keep her knees out of the seat-back in front of her which, as the flight had progressed, seemed to creep closer and closer to her.
But how could she possibly complain, as three days after discovering the identity of the third corpse, and for the second time in her career as a Detective Sergeant, she was travelling abroad at the firm’s expense? The first time had been a ‘jolly’ to Florida to pick up a reluctant witness, a journey which had turned out to be a nightmare of the first degree. Now she was very close to landing at Reina Sofia Airport on Tenerife for a job which she hoped would be less fraught with danger than the American trip had been. That trip had been done on Business Class, this one was economy-sardine. The difference was incredible and not just the price variation. Danny did not really mind though, because when she landed she was going to be put in a decent hotel, would probably have the opportunity to do some sunbathing, be able to pick up some duty-free cigarettes and perfume on the way home — and in between all that have a chat with former Detective Inspector Barney Gillrow about one Malcolm Fitch, deceased, who, it had transpired, used to be one of Gillrow’s informants.
When Danny had suggested the idea of a trip to Tenerife, she had expected out-and-out resistance. However, as the investigation was getting nowhere fast, the SIO in charge was more than happy to authorise the journey even though two other detectives had just returned from the island having drawn a blank with the drug-connection theory to the triple murder.
After Danny finally got her hands on the RCS file on Fitch, it was obvious that Gillrow was his handler. The file was extremely sparse, with few entries of any real note. Danny sniggered when she read it because these days, informant handling at any level was strictly controlled and very bureaucratic. Logs were kept of every meeting, all monetary transactions were scrupulously recorded and verified and nothing was left to chance.
Gillrow had been operating in the days of laxity when procedures were loose and open to all kinds of corruption. Exactly the reasons why things had needed to be tightened up. Too many cops were splitting money with their snouts, too many were getting involved in sexual relationships with them, and too many jobs were going bandit, either before or at court.
After getting the file, Danny had then reached Gillrow by phone. It had been a stilted conversation. He seemed reluctant to talk, stated his memory was not what it once was and he could hardly even recall the name Fitch. Danny had started the phone call believing it would be enough, but the strange vibes she picked up alerted her instinct and made her decide that a face-to-face interview would be more appropriate.
Which is how she found herself crammed on to a holiday charter flight, suffering severe earache, swallowing like mad, sucking a boiled sweet, and descending gradually towards Tenerife.
The seat-belt sign came on — and the No Smoking one. This latter one made her snort. Some joke. The whole flight had been a non-smoker, which was not good. Four hours without a drag was purgatory for her. She was longing for the inside of the terminal building where she would put four cigarettes in her mouth, light them all and inhale a quadruple lungful of smoke.
To fight the feeling, Danny tried to relax and think some more about ex-DI Gillrow. Before flying out she had made a quick visit to the HR department at Headquarters and requested to see Gillrow’s personal file. It had been retrieved from a dusty storeroom, where old personal files are laid to rest.
She did not learn a great deal about the man. He had been a career detective, moving from local CID work to the RCS as it was then, and bouncing between the two as he rose through the ranks. He had retired at the age of fifty-two with thirty-three years’ service behind him and not a blemish on his record. Mr Perfect. A decent, hard- working individual, now enjoying a long, and happy retirement on an island in the sun, as many police officers often did. He was not quite sixty and had a lot more living to do. According to the file he lived in Tenerife with his second wife. He had been married to her for nineteen years. Yes, a good all-round egg… and yet Danny shuddered ever so slightly. The guardedness of the phone call — something was just not quite right, but she didn’t know what. Only by talking to him face to face, watching his reactions, his body language, his eyes, would she be satisfied.
The undercarriage whined down with a creak and a groan. Final descent.
Danny saw road lights below her from the window. She tightened her seat belt, then glanced at her watch — 9.30 p.m. She made some mental calculations: up to an hour tops to get through the airport, collect luggage and pick up the pre-ordered hire car; twenty minutes to Los Cristianos — a resort she knew well from previous holidays — book into the hotel, quick shower, change into holiday clothes, then down to the harbour for a meal and a bottle of wine in a restaurant.
She tried unsuccessfully to wipe the grin off her face.
It was a dirty job, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…
It was an awfully civilised occasion by any standards. A thirtieth birthday party, the big three-zero.
The entire restaurant had been hired for it — at a very discounted price, obviously. A marquee had been erected in the gardens, with a dance-floor and live music from Queen and Beatles tribute bands. The food, wine and entertainment were all terrific and free to everyone who had been invited.
Henry Christie did not want to be there.
It was not in his plans to be invited to Gary Thompson’s girlfriend’s birthday bash. But such was the way of
